


Zimich

by StarlightOnInk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Fantasy, Folk Tale, Frussia, M/M, Winter, fairytale, folk story, myth, snegurochka - Freeform, snow maiden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5239946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightOnInk/pseuds/StarlightOnInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivan was born of ice and snow, but subject to the warmest emotion of all: love. Francis brings to his life a joy such as he never thought imaginable. To maintain their winter wonderland, Ivan must make the ultimate choice: love or eternity. FRussia oneshot based on the tale of Snegurochka, The Snow Maiden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zimich

**Zimich**

 

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a couple that had longed for a child. The mother, with her kind eyes and loving smile, spoke to her husband always of the joys of taking care of a little one, the gentle padding of their feet, their musical laugh, the excitement of teaching them their first word. And he, with eyes equally as loving and hopeful, would talk of how well they would raise their child, how fruitful their life would be, how they would never want for anything. Such were the dreams of these compassionate parents, ready to love any young soul whose care they were responsible for.

 

Yet never had they been blessed with one.

 

As the years passed, the wife’s motherly face became lined by age and grief. Grey gradually replaced the black of her husband’s hair. Their lives were a little over half gone, and all hope seemed lost. Spring turned to summer. Summer dried into the reds and browns of fall. Fall chilled into winter, and the snow began to fall.

 

Despite not having such a young soul in their lives, the couple did not lose any of their imagination or wonder. Snowflakes danced and swirled around their house one particular evening, the little shards of ice glistening in the light of the moon. In that moment, it seemed they lived in a snow globe. The muscles of their mouths were dusted off as smiles stretched across the man and woman’s faces; their eyes met, and in the span of a single heartbeat, a shared idea flashed between them. Out they went to dance among the snowflakes, swirling and spinning and leaping with them. Their breath pooled through the air in great puffs as they laughed and threw snowballs at each other, slipping and sliding in the slippery snow. As the woman continually packed snow into one particularly large sphere, an idea struck her.

 

“Come, let us make a snow child,” she said quietly to her aged husband, whose cheeks and nose were red from a cold he in his joy did not feel. His eyes danced as he nodded. Together, the couple went about mounding snow and gathering straw, breaking off branches and fetching fabric. Thick and sturdy was their snowy creation. Small, for now, for that was how all life began. The nondescript snow features soon gave way as the husband gently molded the face to give the snow child a nose, more pronounced than need be, but any smaller and it would have crumbled away. The wife stepped up beside the snow child and delicately gave him a head of straw hair. Spare purple buttons gave him round youthful eyes. Thick twigs gave the snow child arms; a particularly bowed thin branch gave him an eternal smile. Yes, their little snow child joyful in the wintry environment from which they made him. Yet the woman’s maternal instincts felt uneased as she eyed their frosty child unprotected from the cold. She darted inside and returned with one of her thicker scarves, a soft pink creation that she draped over the snow child with all the tenderness of a mother rocking her child to sleep.

 

Side by side the couple stood, admiring their creation. The little son of the snow, child of winter beamed approvingly back at them…and man and wife had tears in their eyes.

 

“A child,” the man muttered hoarsely, eyes flicking up to the sky, flakes falling even as the moon continued to poke through the clouds. “A child is all we ask.”

 

“Come, dear,” his wife said softly, her hand weighing heavily upon his shoulder as she dragged her gaze away from the little snow being. “Come. He shall be here when we wake up.”

 

It was a fit of childishness, man and woman thought as they went inside and settled into bed. The dreams of a younger couple still daring to hope in a world where hope sometimes went unrewarded.

 

But Winter heard them.

 

Their heartfelt creation touched the entity, who had spilled his frosty coating upon the earth and watched them give it shape. And into it he poured life. This was his long overdue blessing.

 

The next morning, the snow child was both gone…and present. At their door stood a pale soul with ashen hair falling into sparkling violet eyes more precious than any amethyst. His round face broke into a smile as he spotted them both, and without any hesitation he exclaimed “Mama! Papa!” before leaping into their arms. It had all felt so right. Despite their utter astonishment and the overwhelming awe and confusion, the couple was able to rejoice. Always they marveled at the winter miracle bestowed upon them, and together they helped their child, their Ivan, god’s gift, grow.

 

Years passed, years filled with such joy as the couple had not known for some time. Ivan grew taller and stronger and wiser. He never stopped calling them _mat_ and _otets_ though. And each time he said it was a little treasure.

 

Soon, Ivan stood taller than his father, a handsome man with large strong hands to match his large nose, shoulders and heart. His smile was unflinching. Always he greeted them with a warm smile and vibrant purple eyes. To their astonishment, Ivan never got sick; except for fits of sweating in warmer weather they never even had any need to consult a doctor for him. Ivan was blessed with a healthy immortal life.

 

They learned quickly that Ivan was better suited to colder temperatures; he stayed inside all summer. But that did not stop him from wandering, traveling, interacting with others. And that was what led to the most monumental moment of his magical life.

 

A young man Ivan was, when he first saw him. They could not have been that different in age, though their stories were certain to be. When Ivan first saw him, he felt sure that man must be the embodiment of the summer he so loved but could not stand. Strands of vibrant wavy golden locks hung to the man’s shoulders, framing a handsome chiseled face and deep sapphire eyes. Everything about the man screamed elegance, class, _perfection_. When their eyes met, Ivan felt sure his own cheeks had caught fire, so warm did they feel. Something in his expression pleased the man, for he let out a tinkle of a laugh that was positively heavenly, and extended a slim hand for Ivan to shake. Ivan’s own hand seemed to dwarf the stranger’s, yet the smile the man had was clearly for him and him alone. Blue eyes flashed merrily.

 

“Francis Bonnefoy,” the man introduced, and Ivan quickly learned his new favorite name.

 

“Ivan Zimich Braginsky.”

 

An finely shaped eyebrow rose. “Three names? Or is one different?”

 

“Oh- no, no, the second is my patronymic.”

 

“I see.” There was a look of honest curiosity; it was genuine, Ivan could tell, not for the sake of politeness as others might have tried. It made his chest ache pleasantly to think about.

 

Everything changed from that moment forward. Ivan would pace beside the westward window of his house, eyes glued to the road as he waited to see a familiar head of golden hair to bob along. Then he would fly down the stairs and out to greet his new friend, who never seemed less than delighted to see him.

 

Francis was not well suited to the cold. To Ivan, he looked like a snow angel standing amidst the blanket of sparkling frost in his slim coat and fashionable hat. Funny thing, Francis had said the same thing about Ivan, how Ivan seemed to be the very manifestation of all of winter’s wonders. The ache in Ivan’s chest would increase pleasantly along with the burning in his cheeks. All of this right before Francis’s teeth began to chatter from the chill and his nose developed an adorable red tinge to it. Ivan laughed and cradled one slim hand in his larger one and guided Francis over to a large round fountain in the midst of a cobblestone square.

 

“Some more movement will help you,” he assured. And, with slow, precise movements, the tip of Ivan’s finger grazed the glassy surface of the fountain. From his fingertip bloomed ice, solidifying the water in a swirling pattern of graceful arches and jagged lines. The whimsical frost continued across the fountain, thickening and solidifying the water until the whole thing was frozen over. Francis watched in awe, letting himself be guided on top, and together he and Ivan skated slowly over the smooth lovely surface.

 

Their hands fit so nicely together, Ivan could not help but notice as he and Francis swerved back and forth, closer than farther, beside each other. Emboldened by Francis’s obvious joy, Ivan released his hand momentarily to initiate a small spin move. The move was nothing too spectacular, but Francis clapped enthusiastically all the same before he himself skated backwards with long steady swings of the leg. Ivan slid beside him, arm outstretched as if showcasing Francis’s grace to an invisible audience. Francis responded by striking a simple pose, knees and elbows bent and face taking on a look of respectful somberness. Even with such an expression, Ivan found Francis breathtaking. It was during this trail of thought that Francis looked him right in the eye, tugged him close by the hand, and placed a tender kiss upon his lips. The kiss was short, but tasted sweeter than honey. It was soft lips and chapped skin, long strands of hair brushing his cheeks and stubble scratching his chin. Roses and homemade pastries, afternoons by the sea, the dusty pages of intellectual tomes. It was Francis.

 

As Francis massaged Ivan’s lips with his own, he was greeted by the taste of winter storms and springtime thaws, of chamomile and birch and sleigh rides after days spent in honest labor just before settling down in an ancient wooden home. It was Ivan.

 

Ivan’s parents delighted in their son’s joy and encouraged the two to spend time together as often as possible. Francis’s parents were equally supportive after they got over the initial shock; they had known Ivan’s parents for some time and were astonished when it was announced that they had a son, for his mother had never shown and they had seemed too old.

 

“It was a Winter blessing,” she had informed them with utter surety, glancing over at her son fussing away in the kitchen with Francis (the longhaired youth loved spending time cooking and was infecting Ivan with his passion).

 

But Ivan wanted to know more about the feelings he had for Francis, and why they made his chest burn so, as if ancient embers were reignited when in Francis’s presence. He clumsily tried explaining his emotions to Francis, who had silenced him with a caress of the cheek. The look in those blue eyes was almost painfully tender as Francis said “I love you too.”

 

 

It was love.

 

His parents said it to each other each day. They said it to him and he said it back, meaning it each time. But this was something else, something ignited by his own actions and Francis’s. This carried with it a heat only the human soul was capable of fueling; the capacity to love was so very human that it brimmed with life itself, with the very fire of existence.

 

And it warmed Ivan’s heart.

 

Ivan learned why ecstasy was sometimes considered joy to the point of utter agony. His heart ignited with the warmth of Francis’s words, his own emotions, his own love for Francis. Ivan was a product of snow, of cold, of Winter. And yet the workings of Spring had helped to breathe life into him as well. And there they stood before him, the three existing temporarily in their own little world. There stood grizzled, grey, elegant Winter, hardened by his own chilling powers, yet still so very handsome and strong. Beside him was lovely Spring, the very image of bountiful life, eyes alight.

 

“Ivan Zimich, Son of Winter,” said the embodiment of coldness, of snow, of the end of the year.

 

“You are also Ivan Vesnich,” Spring herself reminded him, the picture of vitality. “Son of Spring. Your birth marked the beginning of a life of promised eternity, a life free of bodily ills. Your parents made you with such wishes in mind, a promise for you to never want for anything.”

 

“They never needed to worry,” Winter said, his gravelly voice carrying an enchanting quality only winter could. “You would never have been sick as we made you. But with your current state comes limits. To be fully capable of that one truly human experience, you must become fully human.”

 

“Forfeit immortality,” Spring continued. “And you shall be human, free to feel as they feel, to live as they live. It is a hard life, Ivan Zimich, Ivan Vesnich, but it is such a full life, a life of nuances the likes of which no other can imagine. It is made of emotions and memories, and warmth. But as you are, you cannot experience this without perishing. Love is too warm for a winter heart to stand; it shall melt if allowed to flourish. Forsake love and live immortal, embrace love as you are and let your heart melt with the warmth of it, or shed your cloak of eternal life and be free to feel the full spectrum of human emotions, particularly love.”

 

“You must choose, Ivan Zimich, Vesnich. But know once you put aside immortality, you cannot get it back.”

 

Ivan stared, humbled before these two miraculous beings, so mighty in their age and visage, as they made their offer. He knew if he did not surrender his immortality now he would quickly melt from love, for his feelings for Francis, now realized, were impossible to ignore. Francis was as warm as the sun; it was a wonder Ivan had not melted sooner just by being in close proximity. Francis looked at him as if he were the only being in existence, as if he were something special, someone to cherish. And each day he himself sought to return those looks, those words, those gentle touches. At the same time, his life with his parents had never been plagued by worry over failing health; his parents had never needed to fret at his bedside as an illness sought to snuff his life out. They were all so lucky for that.

 

Ivan made his choice.

 

He awoke to blue. The blue of the sky. The blue of a handsome coat. The blue of Francis’s eyes as they blinked down in concern, those long wavy locks shimmering in the sun like a halo.

 

The rays of light did not burn.

 

His chest ached, but it did not burn.

 

His cheeks were flushed but it was from the chilly wind nipping at them.

 

He was human.

 

He was a human being cradled in Francis’s arms as the other asked what had happened, he had collapsed so suddenly, did he need a doctor, everything was going to be alright.

 

“Da, everything will be fine. More than fine. Everything is beautiful. Francis, I love you.” The words came spilling from his lips of their own accord, each flying on the wings of unparalleled affection. Francis’s eyes widened before a small smile tugged at his cheeks. A hand stroked lovingly through Ivan’s beige locks, twirling a strand in and out of a gentle curl.

 

“And I you, my dear,” came the soft purr. Ivan reached up for the hand playing with his hair and held it to his chest so Francis might feel the beating of his heart, a lively little bird teaming with life.

 

Life with Francis now seemed full of all new wonders; it was like being born again. It did not take long for Ivan to notice some strong differences between his old life and new. The cold affected him greatly while he was free to revel in the warmth of summer. Fatigue slowed his movements more than before his change; he developed several coughs on and off over time, but never anything fatal. His parents noticed the change but were quick to take care of him as they promised he would.

 

And when he and Francis were wed, those three words were said with sincerity. In place of the incessant burning, Ivan’s heart was flooded with elation as he said “I love you” and Francis replied with a kiss.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Gift fic for doitsuatthedisco. When an elderly couple who had for so long wished for a child build one out of snow, a blessing of Spring and Winter is bestowed upon them and the child comes alive as Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden. But being a product of snow, love risked warming her heart and melting her. However, she could give up her immortality to avoid this fate. In tales when love melted her heart, she bids her family a farewell as a cloud before joining Ded Moroz, Grandfather Frost, to give gifts to everyone at Christmas. Giving up her eternal life makes her human and able to love. I did not have the heart to take the sadder route this story could have gone. That, and it’s a gift, so I wanted it to be happy :O With a little commentary on the human soul and if a life without end automatically makes for a good life, or if there needs to be something more. And, of course, Ivan calls his parents mother and father regardless of biology- because biology does not dictate what a family is.
> 
> For those who might be interested, there’s a book called The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey, that offers a sort of modern twist on the tale, while referencing the original source. It will leave you wondering and with a sense of awe at the unexplained magic that we sometimes get to experience in our lives.


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